You need to die.
Eat the grey sludge
on the roadside and
wash it down with drano.
Your pathetic meat face
needs tenderizer and your
puffy lips that serve as
modulators for the sounds
that pass for words that shite
from your pie hole could look
so much prettier if only they
were cracked and bloodied.
I want to stamp all your reports
with the imprint of your face.
The command you demand is
a worthless turtle flipped on
a burning beach just outside
the reach of the incoming tide.
If only you could die, but instead
you smell up any meeting you
attend with your roasting
turtle shell.
Hand me the mallet.
John Kipling Lewis
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jen/
